Shawn in the Sky with Diamonds?
by cuddly carrots
Summary: He waved at everyone as he left the building, and when he was outside, he stood in the parking lot for a while, simply taking everything in. He sighed, turned away and without looking back, walked towards his bike.
1. Prologue

"Dad, what's cancer?" A very young Shawn Spencer asked his father one day.

Henry had known this question was coming once it was made public that Shawn's teacher, Mrs. Strawberry, had pancreatic cancer and was resigning.

Henry sighed and pulled his son onto his knee, wishing that his son would always remain innocent but knowing that one day his sweet son would become as calloused as Henry.

"Cancer is a really bad disease, son." Henry said simply, hoping Shawn wouldn't ask any further questions.

"Then why doesn't she go to the doctors and get a shot?" Shawn asked, eyes wide and confused.

Henry should have known his little detective prodigy would want to know more.

"Because cancer can't always be cured." Henry said sadly, seeing his son's eyes become even more clouded with confusion.

"Why not?" Shawn asked, surprising his father a little bit. He had expected his son to ask what would happen to his teacher, or if she were going to die.

Henry, unprepared for that question, paused and scrunched up his face in a way he had yet to know would be imitated by his son when he was older. "I honestly don't know, Shawn. Sometimes, there are things in life that we really wish we could fix, but no matter what, we just can't."

"Like when I accidentally dropped your handcuffs?" Shawn asked innocently.

Henry wasn't fooled.

"When, exactly, did you drop my handcuffs?" Henry asked, glaring at his son.

"Darn it…"


	2. Chapter 1

"Spencer, go away." Lassiter whined the moment he saw Shawn. Shawn stopped and looked around at his surroundings as if noticing them for the first time.

"Lassie-bear! I'm great. How are you this delightful afternoon?" Shawn asked, momentary confusion all forgotten.

"Go away, Shawn. I don't feel like dealing with your shenanigans today." Lassie sighed, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing his forehead.

"How about Tomfoolery? Or simple good-naturedness? I've always got enough to share." Shawn said cheerfully and sidled up next to Lassiter. "I could always just give you a hug." He said in a thick voice, pouting his lower lip.

Lassiter shoved him away, harshly—Shawn actually fell, smacking his head rather loudly against the ground. "Buzz off Spencer. I don't feel like dealing with you at this moment."

Shawn wanted to curl up into a ball and cry—he had already been having the migraine of the century before Lassiter shoved him—but instead, he popped up like gummy bear on a trampoline and acted his usual hyper self. "Well fine then, Lassie-bear. See if I ever come and see you again." Shawn huffed—but before he left, he paused in the doorway of the man's office and looked at Lassiter for a little bit longer. "Hey, Detective Lassiter."

Lassiter's head popped up, a look of intense confusion written upon the seasoned face.

"I just wanted to let you know, that even though I always mess with you, you're a great cop and I've enjoyed working with you." Shawn looked Lassiter in the eyes, never wavering in the contact.

Lassiter was speechless. His mouth was opened slightly in shock.

"Good bye, Lassifrass. By the way, the spirits tell me someone left you a present in your bottom left drawer." Shawn smirked and waved, almost wishing he had remained to see the look on Lassiter's face when he saw the squirrel snow globe Shawn hid the night before.

Unfortunately, Lassiter didn't look for it.

He was too busy answering his phone.

On the way to Vick's office, Shawn saw Buzz. He gave him a quick high five and discretely left a note in his back pocket. Shawn smiled sadly when he walked away.

He did the same for a few other random people in the hall whenever he thought about it, knowing that behind his back, none of them were thinking anything of his random bouts of friendliness (especially since he was friendly on a regular basis anyways; had he been Lassie instead, it would've been a totally different story), and probably wouldn't until tomorrow.

He was rather talented at hiding pain.

He wondered idly how many of the notes he gave would be accidentally washed away, never to be read, after shaking hands with the janitor cleaning the toilets as he left the restroom one last time. He sighed again.

Chief Vick's door was in front of him. This one would be tough. He knocked.

"Enter." He heard from the other side in a sharp female voice.

"Hey, Karen." Shawn smiled his typical, charming smile. If Karen hadn't been made of stronger stuff, she would've fallen for it a long time ago.

"Please refrain from calling me that, Mr. Spencer. I don't have any cases for you—thankfully things have been quiet lately—so please leave unless if you have anything important?" She said, curt.

Shawn's smile never left, but something about it made Karen feel a little uneasy.

"I just wanted to tell you that you have been a great leader. I also wanted to thank you for taking me on—for giving me a chance when no one else would."

Karen's heart sank. It sounded horribly like a goodbye. "Mr. Spencer, if I didn't know you any better, I'd think that was a goodbye."

Shawn's smile seemed forced now, until it disappeared when he turned his face away and looked into his lap.

"That's because it is." He said, feebly.

Karen's heart stopped. "Mr. Spencer, you remember our deal at the beginning of all this, right?"

Shawn looked up, something slightly bitter in his expression. "You mean the one where I work for you and you don't arrest me? Yes. I do. But I have a new deal. _You_ don't arrest _me_, or my _father_ or _Gus_—and _I_ won't go around announcing to the press that you encouraged my psychic facade as a way to move up the corporate ladder." Shawn hissed, anger in his eyes.

Karen actually cowered a bit. "Is there anything else you'd like to add to that, Mr. Spencer?" She said, this time the bitter one. He had made a very valid offer and point.

Shawn's eyes softened.

"I want you to not tell anyone about this until tomorrow. I want to say my goodbyes in peace." He said, eyes filled with pain.

It wasn't unreasonable. In fact, minus the blackmail, she probably would have gone with it anyways.

"I don't see why I shouldn't do as you ask, but by God Spencer, if you're into anything even _remotely_ illegal..." Karen agreed begrudgingly, for some reason regretting the words the moment they came out of her mouth.

Shawn nodded, looking relieved and slightly guilty, and was about to get up when Karen stopped him. "Please stay for a bit longer, Mr. Spencer." Spencer sat back, a look of dread in his eyes. "May I ask you why and where you're leaving?"

Shawn smiled sadly, his eyes filled with regret now. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

Karen was torn, she felt like she should push—but the look of misery on his face stopped her.

He got up, turned away, but before he was out of the door, he looked her in the eye. "Thank you." He said. "By the way, go ahead and check your bottom left drawer." He smiled, this time it seemed more genuine.

He left, waving as he exited the door.

Karen pulled open her drawer and found a pair of ridiculous leopard print platform heels, with a note that said

"_**To go with that leopard print blouse of yours**_."

She laughed aloud, trying not to cry and looked around to make sure no one would see. She tried them on—more surprised than she should've been that they fit perfectly.

She would never forget Shawn Spencer.

Shawn Spencer listened at the door and heard Karen laugh. He smiled and put his hands in his pockets, whistling. He was done for the day. The other people, the most importants—like Gus, his father, and Juliet—had their DVDs in the mail along with the locations of their farewell presents.

He waved at everyone as he left the building, and when he was outside, he stood in the parking lot for a while, simply taking everything in. He sighed, turned away and without looking back, walked towards his bike.

He got on it, put on his helmet (laughing at the irony of it) and sped away to his home, fully taking in the ride—feeling every gust of wind, smelling every exhaust pipe and donut and dead dog.

All too soon, he was home. He parked his bike, gently placed his helmet on the handlebars, and entered the ex-Laundromat he had called home for the past few years.

Everything was ready. He had started preparing ever since the doctor had said the words "Stage four" and "fatal" in the same sentence regarding his prognosis.

Right before he had used the words "6 months" in the preceding sentence.

Since then, it had been 3 months. Soon, he wouldn't be able to function properly and would have to be hospitalized. He didn't want that. He wanted control. He didn't want to be the typical hero who stuck it out until the end with a smile on his face.

Shawn wasn't strong or selfless enough for that.

He gathered all of his money—he had gone ahead and emptied his bank account. There would be plenty for funeral expenses and to pay off his last debts—such as the rent on Psych. He put it all in a manila envelope, along with the information about brain tumors his doctor had given him (the part about stage four highlighted), a last note and his will.

Sighing, he placed the envelope on the cleaned off coffee table (he had even cleaned out his house so that there would be even less of a burden on his loved ones, and a large chunk of the Psych office closets so Gus wouldn't guess his plans or be stuck with the whole shebang).

He sighed, eyes filled with tears and reached for his gun, cocked it, and placed it at his right temple.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as he squeezed the trigger.

The blast echoed throughout the neighborhood.


	3. Chapter 2

"We've got gunshot sounds at the old Laundromat on Parkway. Repeat, gunshot sound on Parkway." Buzz looked around and seeing that it was just a couple streets over, shrugged and decided to take it.

"I'll check it out, sir." Buzz replied into his radio.

"Roger that."

Buzz turned on his light and sped off; partly excited, partly saddened. Things had been so quiet lately, too…

He pulled up to the apartment and saw Shawn Spencer's motor cycle parked, and suddenly remembered the others talking about Shawn's Laundromat-become-home.

Buzz had a bad feeling in his gut.

He knocked on the door, all of the cop protocol forgotten. "Shawn?" He called, waiting a few seconds. "Shawn!" He called again, voice echoing off of the garage doors and houses in the neighborhood.

Nothing.

Buzz reached for the door knob.

It was unlocked.

Buzz gulped nervously.

He entered the doorway and smelled the nauseating combination of gunpowder and blood. "Shawn! Are you okay?" He yelled, franticly trying to find the man that had quickly become one of his closest friends—the man who had _believed_ in him when everyone else thought he was just a naïve little boy.

He entered the living room.

Carlton hung his phone up angrily. He was sick of dealing with his mother's constant nagging about his love life.

His phone vibrated with a text message from Buzz. He flipped open his phone and read the message in confusion. It had been sent to several other people—including Karen, O'Hara, Gus and Spencer Sr.

It said to meet him at the hospital. Weird. He hoped Buzz was okay—he rather liked the kid, dopey as he was. It was kind of impossible to hate Buzz…like it was impossible to hate those animals on the commercials with Sarah McLoughlin singing _Arms of Angels_…not that those commercials made Carlton cry every time he saw them or convinced him to donate for their silly free t-shirt…Carlton was stronger than that!

Carlton shook his head, shrugged, and grabbed his car keys. Might as well see what the kid wanted. Whistling, he leisurely walked out to his Crown Vic and embraced the amazing weather outside. It felt great. Perfect for fishing.

He got in the car—regretting leaving the fresh air the moment the hot air touched his face—and started it up.

His day had been great so far. He had had leftover lasagna from his mother's visit last night, and it had made a delicious breakfast. Work wasn't too hectic. The only thing that had bothered him was the whole thing with Spencer…something about it was just odd. He didn't know what—but something just wasn't right. Remembering what Shawn had hinted about his bottom left drawer, he groaned. There was no telling what his little "surprise" would be.

As he pulled into the hospital parking lot, an uneasy feeling settled in Carlton's stomach. He didn't know why, but something just didn't feel right. Spencer treating him almost respectfully, Buzz's text to meet him at the hospital…something just wasn't right, and Carlton had a bad feeling that somehow everything was connected in a way he'd really rather it didn't.

And then, with a sudden realization, he whipped out his phone and re-read the text Buzz had sent him.

"Aha!" He exclaimed.

Buzz had sent it to everyone _except_ for Spencer, and since it wasn't anywhere _near_ Spencer's birthday, Carlton had a funny feeling that it wasn't a good sign. He cursed and ran towards the building—sure, Spencer was the nuisance above all nuisances (perhaps even worse than squirrels), but like it or not, Spencer was a part of his team.

His feet pounded on the sidewalk, desperate to make sure everything was okay and heard a voice from behind him calling his name.

He ignored it. This was more important.

He nearly pulled the doors apart with his bare hands as he waited for the electronics to catch up to his presence when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Carlton." A soft female voice whispered.

O'Hara.

"Carlton, it's Shawn, isn't it." She _stated_ simply. Carlton refused to look at her and kept his face straight ahead.

He gulped. "More than likely." He answered, now walking slowly through the lobby towards the desk.

Towards Buzz.

Buzz, who was crying and holding a manila envelope with "To whomever finds me" written in Spen—_Shawn's_—handwriting.

"He's in critical condition. Something…interrupted him…and it struck his ear, grazing the side of his head…but he fell and hit his head on a coffee table…" Buzz managed to get out, handing the envelop to Lassiter.

"Interrupted?" Lassiter asked, stomach filled with dread.

"Read it." Buzz said simply, sliding against the wall to sit down, face in his hands.

Lassiter opened the envelope, unsure if he should try and hide it from his partner. He reached in and pulled out several different papers (noting that the envelope was bugling with bundles of money along with the papers).

One paper was handwritten, another was a legal document (Lassiter winced when he saw it was labeled as "Last Will and Testament"), and lastly was a pack of papers stapled together. Confused, he pulled at the pack and flipped through it, seeing that it was about brain tumors until a highlighted section caught his eye.

"What the—?" He read it quickly, and hearing O'Hara's gasp, knew that she had read it too.

Spencer was dying. The damn kid had been _dying_ the entire time!

Henry's son was dying. He had known for a while, now. He had seen Shawn's search history one day when he had abandoned his laptop to use the restroom. He had seen the websites about how to cope and how to set affairs in order. He even knew the specific type of cancer Shawn had and that it was a brain tumor.

And fatal.

When he had first realized it, he didn't have a breakdown. That could wait. His son _needed_ him—and he needed his son. Instead, Henry began to research. He researched treatment options and payment methods—and spent as much time with Shawn as possible, knowing that he might not have much time left. He never let on that he knew. Shawn would have told him by now if he wanted his father to know.

He _had_ told his mother, though, after reading some emails on an account Shawn had made to keep his father out of his affairs. And yet, she hadn't told Henry.

He would've been royally pissed if his son's life wasn't about to be prematurely taken.

He searched until he found something that sounded like a viable option. It was risky, but if he had it done while his son was dying, then what was the worst that could happen? He called the number, and a deep voice answered. It all seemed pretty shady, but it was free since it was an experimental procedure. The results were what was important, right?

Henry Spencer sighed. He hoped he had done the right thing.

His phone suddenly vibrated.


	4. Chapter 3

When Karen had first gotten the text, she had been pondering what she was going to do without Shawn Spencer. She wasn't going to lie to herself—he was the only reason she had gotten so far.

Yet, it was so unlike him to throw that fact in her face—don't get her wrong, she had seen Shawn ruthless before (she and everyone on the squad were highly impressed with the things he could do with a gun), but this? This was just…cruel…of course, perhaps she had pushed him a little, and he had been….off…lately. Nothing she could really pinpoint, except a lack of energy. He still got amazing results, but he just wasn't as…obnoxious about it. No more rolling on the floor, banging his head against things. Instead, he gave simple, straight-to-the-points answers—and then, that last case when O'Hara had lost her tooth…she had never seen him so exhausted in her life.

Something was wrong, and Karen would probably never get to know what.

She sighed.

"How am I going to tell everyone?" She said to herself, dropping her head onto her desk and rubbing her temples. This was going to be tough.

Her phone suddenly buzzed and broke her out of her reverie. She looked at the number.

"Buzz?" She asked herself and opened the message. Reading it, something about it just didn't feel right. Something was off…something just wasn't…right.

And she had a bad feeling it was about Spencer.

When Gus woke up, he realized he was late for work. _4 hours_ _late_ _for work_. He also realized that his alarm was turned off.

"Shawn!" Gus yelled, even though he doubted that Shawn was still around. He was going to _kill_ his best friend. Gus grabbed his phone to check his messages and saw that there were approximately 45, 43 of which came from Shawn. Gus rolled his eyes and ignored them, going instead to check the other two messages. One was from work, telling him that they hoped he felt better (at least Shawn had covered that base). The other one, oddly enough, was from Buzz McNab, telling him to meet at the hospital.

_Weird_. Gus thought. Since he decided it would be better for his career if he didn't explain to his boss that he was in fact _perfectly_ healthy (with the exception of the occasional bout of IBS) and that it was his free-loading best friend who had called in sick and turned off his alarm. For some _strange_, absurd reason, Gus doubted that it would go over very well.

He sighed. Sometimes, he really wanted to hate Shawn.

Gus leafed through his closet and picked a snazzy (though admittedly unoriginal) outfit and dressed himself after he took a shower.

He had his usual bland breakfast (anything too exciting would set off an inconvenient bout of IBS) and, grabbing his keys, left to go to the hospital. It had been a couple of hours since he had gotten the text, so he hoped he wasn't too late. It was probably some ridiculous scheme Shawn had hatched up.

He parked and jovially walked up to the entrance, despite his bad day, and frowned whenever he saw Juliet, Detective Lassiter, Chief Vick and Buzz sitting in a cluster of seats looking devastated.

Gus had a bad feeling in his gut when he realized Shawn wasn't in that cluster—and that neither was Mr. Spencer.

He froze in place, unsure if he actually wanted to go on, when Juliet looked up, met his gaze and gestured for him to come closer, looking utterly miserable. Gus took a deep breath and began walking forward, his heart pounding in his ears. He felt like he was about to throw up.

He was only a couple of yards from them when Juliet suddenly got up and ran to him, engulfing him with shaking arms, sobbing into his ear.

"Juliet, what's—"

"Shawn's dying!" Juliet sobbed.

Gus froze. It couldn't be true—there was ab-so-lutely _NO_ way that could possibly be what he had heard. Never. Shawn didn't do dying—he did obnoxious, heroic, charming, even anger; but he didn't do dying.

She was wrong.

"No." Gus said. "No. Shawn doesn't do dying." Gus said firmly. Shawn wouldn't do that to him; to anyone!

"He's got—"

Gus didn't let her finish. "Shawn isn't dying."

Juliet sobbed harder, and he felt an envelope being shoved into his hand. He looked beyond Juliet and saw Detective Lassiter's firm, but pained face.

Gus felt sick to his stomach.

Detective Lassiter pulled Juliet away and with shaking hands, Gus opened the envelope, his entire being telling him to stop—but his brain telling him to do it anyways. He pulled out a thick stack of papers (noting what appeared to be a pretty hefty sum of cash in the bottom of the envelope) and paled when he saw the Will on the top. He carefully put it on the bottom of the stack and next were a bunch of papers stapled together. He frowned at it, seeing it was about brain tumors and leafed through it—pausing for a long moment when he saw the highlighted section about stage four.

"No…" Gus breathed, but didn't sound very convinced even to his own self. It made sense…the extra orange bottles he had seen lying around, the disappearances…it made perfect, _damning_ sense.

He put the papers on the bottom and next saw a letter, written by Shawn's own hand.

_Please read this to everyone, and I'm sorry you had to be the one to find me_.

_So, if you're reading this, there's a pretty high statisticological probability that I will be dead. And before you say anything Gus; I've heard it both ways_.

Gus snorted. He had always known that most of the time Shawn messed up his words on purpose to give him a hard time.

_Anyways, for Juliet, Gus, and my dad, Henry Spencer—your goodbyes are already in the mail. I couldn't tell you goodbye in person because I knew at least one of you would figure out what I was going to do. You might be asking why. It's because I didn't want to become one of those sob story heroes who suffers it out to the end. I'm not strong enough for that. I wanted to end things on my own terms, and I only had about three months left—most of which I'd probably either have to be hospitalized, bedridden or both. Please forgive my selfishness, but respect my decision. It wasn't because of anything anyone did, it was because of nature. I included a little packet in case if anyone wanted to learn more_ _(Woody)._ _I don't know why you would (which is why I highlighted only the important part), but there you go (except for Woody, you sick SOB, you! I requested that you do my autopsy in my Will, so have at it and hold nothing back). Lassiter, I've sent you a little something in the mail too. So that way you can know my secret. Well, I hope I get to see all of you later—a very, very, very long time from now. I have to go. I've got a case to solve for you right now on this very day. Weird, isn't it?_

_PS: For your information, I wrote this during the car theft case when Juliet lost her canine tooth. Just a fun fact_. Two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, Shawn was planning his death.

Gus felt all the blood drain from his face. He was sure that right now he was whiter than an albino allergic to the sun.

Two weeks.


	5. Chapter 4

Henry read the text and noted that the only one who hadn't received it was his son.

Now was the time for action.

He punched in # and 1, and was calling Sanford.

"Hello, Mr. Spencer?" The deep voice asked on the other end.

"It's time." Henry said simply.

He could almost hear the other man smile through the phone. "Excellent."

The line went dead and Henry had a bad feeling in his stomach, trying to decide if it meant dread or regret.

Everything was white. Shawn was a little disappointed that that particular cliché was true. He had hoped for something different—like purple polka dots on a lime green and orange zebra print.

With a loud _click_, the vision before Shawn's eyes turned into a cacophony of colors no human being should ever have to experience. He quickly shut his eyes and grabbed his hair in agony.

"I was just kidding! Give me back the white! Don't make me suffer the torment of a female preteen's favorite pair of pajama pants!"

Shawn heard a loud _click_ and a very deep chuckle from behind him and jumped.

"It's okay, son. Everything is white as you asked, though I do admit that I'll have to work on that cliché. It _is_ somewhat embarrassing. How about beige instead?"

Shawn heard another loud click and nervously opened his eyes, but was pleased to see that everything was indeed beige. Feeling a bit more confident, he turned around and saw none other than Morgan Freeman himself—Shawn of course squealed at that particular revelation.

"What!" Shawn yelled excitedly. "No way! You're dead too?"

"No, however, I cannot be revealed fully to you unless you have completely departed from your body, so since you've seen _Evan Almighty_ one too many times, this is how I've manifested myself to you." Morgan Freeman replied, chuckling again.

"Oh…wait, you mean I'm not dead?" Shawn asked incredulously.

"Nope. By my hand alone, you aren't done yet. I interrupted you by making an ice cream truck pass by your house at the exact same time. It was a lot harder than it should've been to convince the _bastard_ to drive down your street," Morgan Freeman frowned, "nevertheless, I rewarded his obedience with a dozen paying customers." Morgan Freeman was smiling again.

"But I digress. You will soon be facing some rather…interesting…circumstances. Don't be too upset with your father, however. He was just trying to do what was best for you. You will encounter a lot of pain, but remember that there is always a reason. Everything is connected—there are _no_ such things as coincidences." Morgan Freeman said solemnly.

Shawn stared at him like he was nuts.

"You're nuts." Shawn said. "I don't even believe in any 'Higher Powers.' Yeah, things generally are connected somehow, but this isn't _The Lion King_—even if you have a deep voice like Muhammad."

"You mean Mufasa."

"I've heard it both ways."

Morgan Freeman chuckled—something that was _really_ beginning to grate on Shawn's nerves, no matter how silky smooth and beautiful Morgan Freeman's chuckle was.

"Perhaps I am nuts, but it's time for you to go back, my dear boy." Morgan Freeman smiled sadly at him.

Shawn felt something pulling around his navel, forcing him away.

"No! I had already accepted everything and got everything together—I can't go back! I wanted to take this into my _own_ hands! You can't do this—stop!" Shawn cried, his voice fading with his body until Morgan Freeman was all alone.

"Good luck, Shawn Spencer." He whispered into the silence.

Morgan Freeman left and everything became white once again.

Henry regretted calling Sanford ever since he picked up the phone to call—he regretted ever listening to the suspicious man who sent him an email out of the blue. Henry had never felt so stupid in his entire existence, but his son was _dying_! Dying! He'd _had_ to do _something_, and at the time, he ignored his gut and now his son was suffering for it. It had seemed like fate at the time—he was researching how to prevent his son from dying of brain cancer, and a man just so happens to email him regarding experimental cures. But now, he realized just how fishy that was. The odds of it all—there was no way it was a coincidence.

Henry had no clue just what exactly he had gotten himself and his son into, if Shawn was even still alive. And from what he learned from his research, that was a _big_ FAT If.

When he had hung the phone up, a sense of dread had settled in his stomach. For some reason, he felt like something was off. In his brief insanity, he couldn't figure out what, but all of his still engrained cop instincts screamed that something was wrong. Very wrong.

The feeling of dread became even worse once the hospital called, telling him his son was there—but at that time, it was more in shock and fear for Shawn. Sanford had been completely forgotten.

It turned into guilt when the hospital called to tell him Shawn had disappeared. It made the front page and everything; "Psych-o Psychic's Suicide Attempt Ends in Disappearance!" Sanford had returned to his mind. Something was fishy—but hadn't he basically known that Shawn was probably going to disappear for a bit? Even he could tell that whatever Sanford was doing more than likely wasn't legal.

But it had been 11 months since then. Shawn had never shown up. Was he even still alive? If he was—then what was being done to him? Henry shuddered. He would have told someone by day two (when Shawn disappeared), but he had received a package on his door step with Shawn's pinky toe inside and a note threatening to torture his son—and that the next toe wouldn't be taken under the influence of anesthesia.

Henry took it to Woody, who confirmed the presence of anesthesia and that the owner was still alive—thankfully the man didn't question him too much, a fact that Henry took note of for future reference.

Five months from that incident, he got a picture of his son—supposedly alive and with a beard. The beard was probably only there to show a progression of time.

Henry sighed and looked out the window. _Shawn, where are you_?

During the first month, Henry prayed every day that his son would be found—alive.

During the second month, Henry prayed that his son would at least be found and have died in peace.

Now, Henry simply prayed that his son would be found.

Soon.

It had been 11 months since Spencer had disappeared from the hospital, never to be seen again, and Lassiter found himself thinking something he never thought would _ever_ cross his mind.

Things were too quiet. There were no more frustrating pranks, or "spirit vibrations."

Nothing.

"Dammit." Lassiter hissed when his pen broke in two and covered his hands with blood-red ink. That one had been the last in the cup—now he'd have to open up a new bag, throw the trash away, test each pen to make sure it worked, etc. He reached down, sighing, and opened up his bottom left drawer and felt around in it. He frowned when his fingers met something that most certainly was _not_ a bag of pens, instead it was heavy and smooth and cold. He lifted it out and set it on his desk, feeling his blood pressure boil.

Unbelievable! That little snot had the _nerve_ to put a squirrel SNOWGLOBE in his desk!

He nearly threw it, but stopped himself, cradling it in both of his hands sadly.

"Idiot." He muttered and set it in a corner (a corner where no one would be able to see it unless they knew to look for it), scrunching his eyes when he saw something on the bottom. He held it upside down and read the note taped underneath it.

_Psych! Happy shooting_!

Lassiter blanched and set it down. Spencer had _expected_ him to destroy his last gift…

He shook his head and rested it on top of his arms, still fiddling and stroking the snowglobe.

His pager went off, so Carlton lazily pulled it out with one hand and read it.

"Crazy person in the lobby?" Lassiter frowned, but released the snow globe he had still been fiddling with to its secret hiding place and headed towards the lobby.

When he got there, he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Spencer?" Lassiter shouted.


End file.
